


little things

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Female Newton Geiszler/Female Hermann Gottlieb, actually, mundane things can be so personal, the return of lesbian hermann gottlieb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 23:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann's hair is the subject of much frustration-or: Hermann Gottlieb, as told through the medium of haircuts, both had and not had.





	little things

(_ one _)

The light of the lamps around her seem to be glaring; the hairdresser's shears glint in their light, cold against Hermann's scalp—not cutting any hair, just yet; rather, measuring. "How do you want it, hun?" the hairdresser asks, pulling out her combs.

Hermann breathes. "Short," she says, "no bangs. Like..." words flee her grasp; she knows what she wants but not _ exactly _ —just that she doesn't want it _ long _ anymore. "Just...make it short," she settles on.

"Can do," the hairdresser says, "so, like, bob-length?"

"I..." _ no, _ she means, but it lodges in her throat; she nods, mutely.

The scissors glint, again, before they begin to cut, snipping off chunks; sending long, thick clumps of brown hair to the ground, and bits, somehow, beneath the collar of the apron she's put on; irritating her skin. Hermann tries not to move too much.

"Hmm," the hairdresser says, "you know, it's a pity you're cutting it so short—most people would die to have hair as thick and healthy as yours."

I know, Hermann doesn't say; tired. I know, but I want this anyway. Because, for more than two decades, she's been uncomfortably aware of how much the hair she has is not, truly, hers—it's her mother's, her father's; strangers' to comment on, and classmates' to envy; lovers' to play with and tease, but never, never, _ never _ hers. "I wanted a change," she says, instead; nonconfrontational.

"Pity," the hairdresser says, again, and her shears go _ snip, snip, snip, _ right bellow Hermann's ear—too long, still, she knows, but can't seem to say.

When it's over, and the hairdresser hands her a mirror and asks how she likes it, she doesn't say, _ I still hate it. I wish I could chop it all off; _ says, instead, "It's very well styled, thank you."

The hairdresser beams at her.

(_ two _)

The bob-cut grows out before she has time to deal with it beyond washing; leaves her, again, miserable in the bathroom of her little apartment, hair wet, a gaunt, unfamiliar face framed by too-long brown hair staring back at her in the mirror, and a sting in her palms she realises is from her nails cutting through the skin.

Red drips from her hands and onto the floor, and vaguely, she's glad it's tile—that'll be easier to clean.

The hair seems to weigh a ton—falls just above her shoulders, and suddenly, she's ten again, wanting to wear trousers and run and play on the monkey bars, and her mother's telling her, _ No, Hermione, _ and brushing at her hair, too hard, hard enough that it brings tears to her eyes, and then zipping up her dress. _ You don't want to ruin all that hard work, now, do you? _

Her teeth grind; hard; and tears come again to her eyes. "Stop, damnit," she hisses, and scrubs at her eyes, leaving behind red streaks of blood from little crescent wounds.

The cold of the water and soap, shocking, at least drags her out of the downward spiral; brings her back to firm, steady, rational ground. She searches for a hairband, pulling the hair into a short pony-tail, and then pulls out a double comb, the mesh between pressing the hair against her head enough that it almost doesn't seem to be there.

She breathes a sigh; relief.

The soap stings her hands, and then, finally, the water runs clear instead of rose-pink.

Distantly, she considers her hair again; it needs to be cut, yes, but she doesn't have the _ time _ to try and book and appointment for it, and the hairdressers always make it longer than she wants.

She pulls on a loose button-up and sighs; life stops for no one, and she has classes to teach and a paper of her own to work on.

(_ three _)

It's the war; kaiju rising from the oceans to devastate their cities, and yet, somehow, though Hermann is the one working on the Jaegers, on the predictive model, on _ stopping _ them, it all feels so _ small. _

The hair that's grown too long, out past her shoulders and now, halfway to her lower back—it's war, one can hardly afford time to find a hairdresser—does _ not _ feel small. It feels, with every breath, every step, every scratch of chalk on black board, _ heavy; _ painful.

Beyond that, it's a _ nuisance; _ the strands get in her way—when she eats, when she speaks, when she _ works; _ and the upkeep is nightmarish—it takes, during the cold season, or the damp season, depending on where she's stationed, up to four days to dry fully.

And, oh, god—the _ memories. _

Hermann's childhood was hardly pleasant, and the growing length of her hair is a painful reminder of some of the worst of it.

She envies, so dearly, Geiszler, who takes a pair of scissors to her own hair more than cheerfully after a lab accident; for, no matter how much she wishes otherwise, Hermann herself is too afraid—too _ cowardly _ —to do the same with her own, no matter how _ relieving _ it would be.

She longs for the hair to be short enough that she can feel the breeze on the nape of her neck; drag her fingers through her hair, and, for once, not leave a tangled mess in her wake.

But—she is not brave.

Not now.

So she purses her lips and pulls it back into a tight bun—tight enough that it pulls at her scalp, painful; and goes on with her day, trying to combat a seemingly unstoppable force, though she's no immovable object.

(_ four _)

Summer—dry season—is the worst, nearly; for while the cool dampness of the wet season means her hair doesn't _ dry, _ at least she can wrap up in so many more layers and keep warm, regardless of how much head is being lost from the wet hair against her skin.

No—dry season means sweating; sweating so much she gets migraines, worsened by the weight of her hair, thick as it is, sticking, in the front, to her sweat-slicked forehead. She seems to be aching all over—not just her leg, no, but down to the nerves and marrow of ever inch of her body, whether she stands or sits or lays down.

"Whoa, man, you look..._ bad, _ " Geiszler— _ Newton, _ now, comments; concern in her tone; a mug of coffee in her hand. "Do you need something?"

"No, I'm fine," Hermann mutters; meaning it to be waspish, but coming up, instead, with lethargy; drags a hand across her forehead, pulling aside the hair that's fallen forward and stuck there.

Newton frowns at her. "Gimme a few," she says, and retreats fully back to her own side. When she gets back, it's with an ice-pack. "Here," she says, "if you won't cut your hair, you should at least keep cool—and hydrate, too, alright, dude?"

Hermann breathes in slowly; wishes, more, again, that she _ could _ bring herself to make the leap and cut it off; says, instead, "I don't need your concern, Newton, I'm just fine." But she takes the ice-pack anyway, and the towel the biologist offers, the cool of ice through cloth against the nape of her neck a sweet relief.

(_ five _)

The beat of her heart with Newton's, simultaneous, is like the beat of a drum: one-two, one-two, one-two; the sound of life, if one's poetic.

There's blood on her and on Newton and some of it is hers and some of it's the biologist's and, honestly, right now, Hermann doesn't care; smile too wide, painfully so, and she throws her arm over Newt's shoulders and pulls her close, shifting her cane so as to take advantage of the strange pseudo-intimacy of the euphoric moment.

Newton, against her, clings back; almost too quiet to be heard over the roar of those around them, she says, once they've steadied, "Hey, I want to do something for you," and tugs Hermann out of LOCCENT and down the abandoned hallways.

They finally to where she's leading Hermann—a small, empty room; an office chair, two pairs of shears, a razor, some combs, a towel, and a hair-dryer. "I thought I'd give you a haircut," Newt explains. "I mean, if you want—I've been, um, planning it for a while, but after the Drift, I..." she trails off; there's no need for words.

The gesture brings tears to Hermann's eyes—not pain, this time; simply, she is overwhelmed by emotion. "Thank you," she manages, and sits in the chair.

Newt's smile, only moments earlier, nervous, transforms into a blinding, thousand-watt thing of beauty. "Right," she says, "hang tight, there, Herms, I'll get you all fixed up..."

It turns out messy; uneven, a bit, but the back is short, _ short, _ the razor doing its work like it's meant, and there's a pile of dark brown locks on the ground, and when Hermann catches sight of her reflection, the top less than four inches at the longest, she smiles so hard it hurts, even though the skin on of her neck and shoulders itches where it's being poked by little slivers of hair.

"Thank you," she says, again; softer, this time, and Newt shrugs.

"Hey, anytime," she replies, and, when Hermann takes the hand she offers to help her up, she squeezes it—tight and reassuring.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
